Two to play the game
by sheepstake
Summary: Why Chauvelin should have known that one must only take snuff from the Prince of Dandies with a pinch of salt... A series of one shots from Percy's perspective and how the Scarlet Pimpernel is always 'up to snuff'. Chapter Two 'En Route Chat Gris' up.
1. The Covent Garden Opera

In the third act of Gluck's incomparable _Orpheus and Eurydice_, the reunited couple were making their way back to Earth from Hades. But most eyes in the Covent Garden Theatre abandoned the lovers in the wood at the stir in the Blakeney box. Lady Blakeney's delectable loveliness and Sir Percy's sartorial splendor were lodestones. With every society event that they graced, their power to attract increased.

Percy settled back in his luxurious seat, having bowed in response to the salute from the Royal Box and to Pitt's genial wave. Priorities in order, he acknowledged the considerable number of his acquaintances in that star studded gathering with brief nods. The perpetual boredom that now mantled his face was calculated to impress any observer that the musical fare was not making much of an impression on the exquisite dandy. Not that it was such a difficult task, he mused. His wife's intense absorption in the opera was such a perfect foil to set off his ostensible inability to rise to any sort of advanced intellectual activity, including musical appreciation.

His wife. Despite his somnolent air, he was aware that the scrutiny occasioned by her radiant beauty extended beyond the fanfare of their entrance. His eyes lit upon the luxuriously mounted box opposite theirs. Lord Grenville's. He was accompanied by a man in immaculate black. Seeing the stranger's eyeglass leveled at Lady Blakeney, Percy idly supposed that the man was yet another poor fool caught in the toils of Marguerite's charm. Like so many insignificant moths drawn to the flame of her enchantment. Or was comparing his wife's allure to Circe a better metaphor? With vehement bitterness, Percy chided himself that he was a glutton for punishment.

Their conjugal relations were hardly a novelty… and quite the fashion in the circles in which they moved. But Marguerite's acerbic wit and good natured contempt of her husband were considered an interesting variant. Percy had to admit and admire the poise with which Marguerite balanced herself at the pinnacle of London society. For all that his wife had been on the stage, her conduct as a grande dame always became the exalted position she graced. Unconventional she was (which popular verdict condoned as 'foreign' eccentricity), but always charmingly so and always a step ahead of the coterie of jealous female wags who defined the bounds of Propriety. Years of being on the stage had made his wife past mistress at the science of keeping her admirers at bay and distributing her favours with a democratic flourish, charming to all but particular to none.

Who would know better than him? In fact, it was quite a sensation that the incomparable Marguerite had not yet taken on a lover (after all, she was French; was it not inevitable?). Percy considered himself above being affected by the mindless pursuits of the privileged class of which he was a part. Nevertheless, it had been rankling to learn of the bets laid at several exclusive clubs in London as to which lucky rake would storm Lady Blakeney's citadels and add the former actress as a crown to a list of conquests. Beneath the elaborate fall of his sleev's Mechlin lace, his hand fisted at the very memory. Something no one glancing at the baronet's lounging figure could have imagined. Blakeney stretched his length and yawned but his mind lingered on the few effective words in certain select ears that had checked the vulgar bandying of his wife's name. For all that he seemed to be the most benign and harmless of souls that graced London society, falling afoul of England's richest man and the Regent's closest friend was definitely not advisable.

He wondered why he had bothered. He didn't care for the obvious answer.

On stage, Selina Storace trilled the heart rending confusion of Eurydice as her husband walked ahead, neither glancing at her nor holding her hand: Did Orpheus no longer love her? Why would he not look back at her? Just one glimpse… Was one look too much to ask?

The brief glance he shot at Marguerite unfortunately collided with her contemptuous glare of annoyance. His yawns and other somnolent affectations had clearly disturbed her. He marshalled the inane smile, that could always be relied upon to infuriate his wife and turn her attention away from him. Damn Gluck.

The irony. The curve of his lips fleetingly hardened to a cynical twist as he recalled his first glimpse of her on stage. The saucy lilt of her voice, her exquisite poise, the lightest motion of her hands had captivated the glittering firmament of Parisian society and brought them in homage to her feet. It had been the last night she was known as 'that protégé of Louis St. Just'. Marguerite had come into her own.

Couched in the privileges due to his wealth, power, connections, Percy had never known the kind of helplessness that overpowered him that first night. A mere two hours in her company later that evening culminated in his mad dash to the East in an attempt to escape, to evade the magnetism of her rapier wit, to forget the wonder of her beauty. Her luminous eyes, the shimmer of her unpowdered hair...Bah! one would have been hard pressed to find a greater snivelling blockhead.

He clenched his teeth against a sigh at the irony of it all. Even now, she held his heart as surely as she did then. He despised the fact that not even her deception, not even blood stained hands could dethrone her from his heart.

But now he had learnt to survive.

Now he was past master in skirting an encounter with those deep, violet eyes. Now that she was his wife.

And he the most envied man in England as he played court jester and second fiddle to her.

As he surveyed the stage through his eyeglass, Percy knew that his mask was in place. Even if his armor was not. Nothing betrayed how the magic of her presence played havoc on his keen senses. How hauntingly beautiful she was tonight! The thought kept hammering at his tortured consciousness. He had had no escape since the moment she had came down to meet him in their drawing room earlier that evening. Dressed in a short waisted classical gown, the gold sparkles of her gown had danced in the candlelight and bathed her in a glory that was unearthly. She had come straight to him, extending her hands gloved in satin and gems. And worse…she was disposed to be generous with him tonight.

However tempting the thought, he knew that it had nothing to do with the exquisitely worked Florentine necklace, which was the latest trinket that he had sent up to her. It graced her throat, embraced it,… but was shamed before the brilliance of her eyes as she thanked him for the gift. She was as radiant, as the first time their lips met in an unforgettable kiss. Less than a year ago, just less than a few months, he had believed… had flattered himself into believing that he had won this vital creature. That she had been his own.

Now he was wiser. He knew that the joy which emanated from her had nothing to do with him. It was born of a mere scrap of paper he delivered two days ago. A letter from her brother, recounting his safe arrival at Calais. Even as he had brushed aside her gratitude for his loan of the Day Dream for her brother's journey, the sight of her regard for her brother and the sheer depth of her affections had awakened with a vengeance all the reasons why he fell in love with her. Every moment in her company mocked him relentlessly with the vision of what could have been.

Ever since she had news of her brother's safe arrival, there was a spring in her step, a lightness of being. Last night, as he crossed her suite of rooms on the way to his own, her buoyant voice had filtered through a door ajar. For a space, he had been unreasonably jealous of his brother-in-law, Armand St. Just- the only man who possessed the ability to call forth in his distant goddess of a sister, a living, glowing, glorious woman. Standing on the stairs, he fought with desperation against the longing to throw away his pride, his honour, the past… to charge through that door and …seize her to his heart. Pride had won. An empty victory. It was well nigh unbearable tonight to be so near, yet so far from her.

Almost impatiently he scanned the theatre. Once again, his gaze rested on the box opposite theirs. The man in the box across still had his glass trained on Marguerite. Blakeney recognized what his instincts had subconsciously registered- the fellow's unvarying but unobtrusive appraisal of their box. And he trusted their finely honed sensibility to danger. An invaluable discernment that saved more than his skin many times.

Sir Percy leaned forward to ostensibly acknowledge a peer who had been angling for his attention from a box situated conveniently near Grenville's. But beneath hooded eyes, he chanced a keener glance at the stranger. Sharp featured, small and thin, almost insignificant in physical presence. Blakeney was not deceived. The very stillness of the man's posture warned him that here was a man who could be a force to reckon with.

The swift currents of his thought quickly pieced together various pieces of the puzzle lodged in different parts of his mind. Of course! Percy berated himself for his late recognition- the man was undoubtedly the accredited agent of the French Government. The name escaped him for the moment. But that explained his presence in Grenville's box. Diplomatic relations and all that blather. But nevertheless, beneath that veneer… a man whose avowed mission was to ferret out the Scarlet Pimpernel… be he in heaven or in hell.

Taking a pinch of snuff from his enamelled box, Blakeney paused. Quite a poetic turn of phrase, that one – Is he in heaven? Is he in hell? The elusive pimpernel. No... that demmed elusive pimpernel. Much better… His lips quirked at the thought of the muse's timing in the face of a threat…Blakeny stiffened… a threat, who was taking a decidedly unwanted interest in his wife.

His wife. Marguerite. Now blissfully immersed in the passion of the music. What would be her role in the drama that would unfold? Clearly she was being considered for a part by her compatriot. That much was evident. Percy had seen men look at his wife with desire, with lust, with adoration, with reverence… but never with this kind of intense regard that suggested calculated intent, a regard not born of amorous motives. His eyes fixed listlessly on the stage, Percy's entire posture suggested lethargy and languor. Playing the part of a man forced to be part of his wife's intellectual pursuits when he would rather be anywhere else, Percy kept trying to gauge his adversary's perspective.

Definitely Lady Blakeney could hardly be placed more conveniently if one intended to employ her services to capture the Pimpernel. His wealth and name, not mention her winsome beauty and effortless charm, gave her an automatic entrée to elite circles- the Regent, political parties, coteries sympathetic to the émigré cause. And she could dissimulate- after all her glittering career as the actress par excellence of the French stage was not easily forgetten. Not to mention the crowning qualification- her loyalty to the Republic proclaimed in her denunciation of the St. Cyrs. Yes, she was a priceless pawn.

The question was- would she allow herself to be played? He knew from painful experience that Marguerite was her own mistress and that she obeyed no earthly will before her own. Her unflinching confession of her part in the St. Cyr executions the day after their marriage, had proved that. During the bitter weeks which followed, he was left with the broken hollow of his dreams. She had had no qualms on leaving him for her brother's home.

Blakeney guessed that the French agent would probably try to work his estrangement from his wife to his advantage. He cynically mused that previously neither her engagement nor her marriage to him had hindered her 'contribution' to the Revolutionary cause. But he wondered if the chap had taken into account Marguerite's fascination with the persona of the Scarlet Pimpernel.

It was a situation whose painful irony washed over him every time he heard her waxing lyrical about English society's lion of the moment. Marguerite was enamoured of every scrap of his so called 'exploits'. The glow in her eyes when the Pimpernel was mentioned, her passionate advocacy of his 'virtues', the pimpernel shaped rubies which caressed her white throat and arms … all told their own story. And no, he was not immune to the tide of emotions that washed over him, when he saw her decked in his colours. Indeed, he could not help but embrace a sharp and irrational joy at her ardent response to his work of mercy. And then the bitter taste of knowing that the Pimpernel was born in the discovery that his goddess had feet of clay. It would be so easy to forget that Percy and the Pimpernel were two men for her. Breaking that train of thought, he mused that the only question of import for the present was whether a romantic phantom in his wife's imagination would win against the persuasions of the accredited agent of the Republic.

His eyes never wavered from the stage and his demeanour of apathy grew more pronounced. His thoughts however rushed with the rapidity of a flood. Blakeney was convinced that Frenchman would not target Marguerite without gauging her measure. Without having identified a trigger that would make her spring to action- willingly for his cause. She had wealth, position, political favour and influence. The bait… the bait was the only question.

Through the mist of half formed thoughts and incoherent hunches, Percy knew that he could no longer evade the writing on the wall. Armand St. Just. The attachment between brother and sister was no secret. But his affiliation to the League was definitely one. St. Just's purpose in Paris was to keep a tryst with Comte de Tournay who was a suspect of the Committee of Safety in order to inform him about his family's safe arrival in England and the League's plans to rescue him. St. Just, it must be him. It could only be him… and if it was him, then…

His brother in law was in imminent danger if the Frenchman had grasped that St. Just was part of the League. If St. Just was the lever, he had no doubts as to how Marguerite would bend. Percy straightened in an uncharacteristic jerk. Marguerite looked around at her husband, a slight frown between her brows, as his movement broke through her reverie.

Making a courtly courtesy, he raised her hand to his lips, 'La, my dear, I suspect your countless admirers are ready to make short work of me. In fear for my health, I am afraid I must yield to their claim on your presence.'

His wife hardly listened to what he was saying. Her attention had turned back to the compelling music. No one watching Blakeney leave his box after performing the requisite amount of husbandly attendance on his wife would have suspected that his mind dwelt on more than comparing the cut of his coat with that of his friends among Marguerite's long line of admirers. But the astute brain of the adventurer was already trying to adjust to and work around this probable line of action that his adversary could follow. He had let Foulkes and Tony know at Dover that he would be at Grenville's ball. He needed to know if there had been any leak regarding St. Just's involvement.

Percy turned back to look at the box he vacated a little while ago. Sure enough, the little Frenchman in black had taken his place beside Marguerite. Blakeney's eyes momentarily glittered a brilliant blue, before the heavy lids shuttered their expression. It would take two to play this game.


	2. En route the Chat Gris

**AN: Two quotes are sort of the basis of this story:**

'"_Dressed as the dirty old Jew," he said gaily, "I knew I should not be recognized. I had met Reuben Goldstein in Calais earlier in the evening. For a few gold pieces he supplied me with this rig-out, and undertook to bury himself out of sight of everybody, whilst he lent me his cart and nag."_

_"Sir Andrew!" she gasped. Indeed, she had wholly forgotten the devoted friend and companion, who had trusted and stood by her during all these hours of anxiety and suffering. She remembered him how, tardily and with a pang of remorse._ _"Aye! you had forgotten him, hadn't you, m'dear?" said Sir Percy merrily. "Fortunately, I met him, not far from the 'Chat Gris.' Before I had that interesting supper party, with my friend Chauvelin. . . ."_

**Percy's return to the Chat Gris to find Chauvelin dressed as a priest waiting to spring the trap is one of the most splendid scenes of the novel_._ But somehow Percy's probable state of mind just before Foulkes must have let him know that Chauvelin was on his tracks and that Marguerite was waiting for him has always intrigued me... For the sake of continuity with the novel, I have retained Orczy's rather problematic depiction of Reuben Goldstein. One more note: The delightfully melodramatic quotes used in the story are from the chapters 'Richmond' and 'Farewell' in _The Scarlet Pimpernel._**

The Prince of Dandies held a scented handkerchief to his nose against the foul odours. Judging by the nature of colourful abuse on the state of Calais' roads emanating in a steady stream of mutters from him, one would have been hard pressed to imagine that Blakeney was considered the Ton's most genial soul.

Sir Percy flicked his capable wrist in an attempt to inspire his latest acquisition: the equine bag of bones that was hitched to the rickety cart on which he was perched. For so particular a connoisseur of horseflesh, words failed him as he attempted to capture the contrast: this half starved nag that was indifferently belabouring on this deplorable road and his glorious Arabians at Richmond...Sultan for instance...

_Percy...will you not tell me why you go to-day? Surely I, as your wife, have the right to know._

Percy grit his teeth. His fingers tightened on the reins...Richmond. Richmond. Richmond. He was beginning to feel disgusted with how every thought during the past two days somehow managed to wind itself to the bowers and gardens of his stately home... and thence to ...Marguerite.

_...my thoughts go with you...farewell..._

Surely, one would have thought by now he would have mastered leaving behind one identity when donning the other. But even as the juggernaut of memories threatened to overwhelm him in a deluge, he refused to permit his wayward mind to dwell for a moment on Marguerite's behaviour during their last encounter at Richmond... To do so would have meant the certain destruction of the feeble citadel of his self control... The mere memory of her tone, almost tender, husky... and her eyes... her glorious eyes and the baffling promise in them as she bid him farewell.

_...Will you allow me to thank you at least?..._

Flailing, floundering, a mere drowning man, Percy desperately latched on to another strand of thought. He determinedly and defiantly speculated on...on the bank of clouds that obscured the moon and what that meant in terms of odds in favour of or against the escapade planned for the night. Optimism found an unlikely source. His horse, for one, surprisingly seemed to have no concerns on the score of absent light as it plodded along at the same weary pace. Percy felt content at least on the front of the evening's transactions.

On his enquiry about acquiring a horse and cart, his dubious host at the Chat Gris had directed him to a certain Reuben Goldstein who lived in some godforsaken terrain on the outskirts of the village. His conviction that Brogard needed some new friends had grown, when he saw the half starved state of the poor beast that was on offer.

Percy knew that the sight of his rich attire had done much to convince the fellow that he was a lamb for the fleecing... one of elephantine proportions both metaphorically and literally. Percy had not cared to hassle over the exorbitant amount that the man was asking for the sorry nag and the pitiful cart. He had offered to pay more, merely asking all too eager trader to throw in a gabardine and hat with the deal.

With admirable perspicuity, Goldstein added a grimy red wig to the bargain and the promise of forgetting this transaction at its immediate closure. After all, Calais was no stranger to rich, foreign visitors peddling in contrabrand or other such murky commodities and who had reason enough to blend in with its dubious environs.

_...but you will run no danger?..._

Percy drew in a sharp breath and closed his eyes. He tightened the reins of his newly acquired possession. Focussing, he mused how the whole deal was engendered from a germ of an idea, born in the covetous glances that the elderly trader had shot at his exquisite clothes. Mister Goldstein's own deplorable sartorial tastes were not without their merits… in some contexts… such as if required to reach a few fugitives hiding at a fisherman's shack undetected; especially considering the rabid prejudice with which the French perceived the progeny of Abraham. Percy had a fair amount confidence that it could become a disguise that would occasion fewer chances of intense scrutiny.

God alone how the night would turn out... and a little preparation would not hurt. He had an uneasy instinct that this would not be an easy run... Things were going according to his usual plan... which was to leave things to chance and then boldly seize that one hair on bald Fortune's head... or rather a wig of corkscrew curls, he thought, as his gaze fell on the bag at his feet.

Considering that dame's antics and her unholy joy in leading him into situations which called for one outrageous disguise after another, it would not be surprising. Having seen his adversary at work at Lord Grenville's ball two days ago, Percy was certain of one thing. He would have to assiduously court the fickle hag's favour over his rival. The alternative did not bear much thinking about...

'_... you do not understand . . . you cannot . . . and I have no one to whom I can turn . . . or help . . . or even for sympathy . . ."_Percy clenched his teeth, as he tried to push away...to drown the memory of his wife's desolate sobs...endlessly ricocheting in his mind.

_"Faith! I can scarce believe that but a few months ago one tear in my eye had set you well-nigh crazy. Now I come to you . . . with a half-broken heart . . . and . . . and . . ."_

Zounds and damnation!

The confounded nag had taken advantage of his distraction to embed the cart in a rut in the awful road. He sprightly descended from his vantage... and into thick sludge, whose composition he was blissfully ignorant of. He was glad for the physical strain of getting the cart was moving again out of the mire. It cleared his mind. The last thing he needed was his pathetic grasp on his concentration to give Chauvelin an edge.

The night at Grenville's had been highly illustrative of his adversary's mettle. While it had been quite illuminating to watch Chauvelin in action, Percy's lips quirked as he remembered how taxing it had been in the bargain: he had had to keep George entertained, keep one eye on his hand in their card game and the other on the open door to the ballroom from where Chauvelin could be discerned.

But it had been worth the effort to notice how Chauvelin's entire body language changed on seeing Marguerite and Foulkes emerge with from a boudoir and take their place with the other couples on the brilliant dance floor. The ill concealed air of distress with which Andrew danced the minuet with his wife had caught his attention almost immediately. Marguerite's face had been alight with innocent mischief, as she laughed up at him. But why would Andrew seem so troubled by Marguerite's presence? Though his marital relations were taboo in any discussion with his friend, Percy knew well enough that Marguerite liked Andrew and that they were fairly good friends.

Excusing himself from the Prince on the pretext of getting some punch, he had moved away from the card room to get a better perspective on the drama unfolding in the ballroom. Percy had noted the manner in which the French agent gravitated towards Andrew as the strains of the minuet drew to a close. His friend's agitation had obviously not escaped his observation as well. He had mentally raised a toast to Chauvelin at that...and a swift shot of adrenaline had coursed through him at the thought of how their reckoning would be no easy one.

His antagonist's surveillance of Andrew's movements had been amazing in its intensity. Whimsically, he recalled a conversation on the topic of previous lives that he had with a Rajah who had entertained him in India during his travels. Chauvelin must have been a very superior bloodhound in his past birth. A soft chuckle escaped him, and rang strange in the gloomy night, which was silent except for the dull sound of his poor horse and the decrepit cart.

However, Percy's mirth chilled as he recalled the ruthlessness that accompanied Chauvelin's relentlessness. He felt his throat constricting as he remembered the French agent's surveillance of Marguerite and his interview with her during the opera...

Even at the ball, he had begun to see the plausibility of assuming that the purpose of Chauvelin's interview with his wife at the Opera must have been to solicit her aid in his hunt for the Pimpernel ... He had speculated that Andrew's distress could mean that Marguerite had assented and that her attempt to garner information about the league may have roused his suspicions in some manner. And later... he had confirmation...

"_Oh! I wish I dared to tell you . . . but. . . but . . . he has put a price on my brother's head, which . . ."_

Quickly, Percy snapped back to the events of that fateful evening and recalled how it had not been such a leap of faith to work with the assumption that Chauvelin was betting on Foulkes trying to approach the Pimpernel. And he had guessed that would happen, unless Andrew was stopped...

Percy had acted in the midst of regaling the Regent with a long winded story about how a couturier in Geneva had tried to beguile him into buying a coat of a most atrocious cut. Without losing the thread of the narrative, he had called across to Andrew to support his claim of a similar instance with a seedy character who owned a Parisian store called La Cape Rouge. Foulkes, God bless his soul, had comprehended immediately and responded admirably to his sally. La Cape Rouge was a coded warning about danger, established between the League members and which was to be employed in a situation in which they could not openly communicate. Percy had known that his quick lieutenant would catch on. With Chauvelin being distracted by Foulkes and entirely disinterested in the exploits of London's most charming dandy, he had managed to slip across a note to Hastings, retracting his earlier instruction about meeting him.

As the gregarious company drew away from the supper table in the wake of His Royal Highness, Percy had known that it would be a considerable gamble if he went ahead with the plan of being in the supper room at one...The cost of verifying his suspicions about the extent of Chauvelin's knowledge against the possibility of his penetrating the Pimpernel's facade... If the accredited agent of the French government was hot on his heels and baying for his blood, would it not be more valuable if he was following the trail that Percy himself set?...If one could not shake him off, why not take the demmed ferret along for the ride?...But if his cover was exposed, then...

...then too, one could hope for a hair on hoary Fortune's head...

Chauvelin had obligingly made all his machinations over dinner quite worthwhile when he casually sauntered into the supper room at the stroke of one. In retrospect, Blakeney mused that it had been highly amusing to observe Chauvelin steal a page out of his book and pretend to sleep on a couch. Egad! The man, whatever his other talents might be, could not fake-snore to save his life any more than he could tie a decent cravat. Percy, who considered himself quite the master at pretending to sleep to avoid unpleasant situations, was particular about snoring styles. Nevertheless, the Frenchman was definitely on his track, however short Chauvelin might fall with respect to his fastidious requirements on other fronts.

If the events at Grenville's Ball had not been enough, Marguerite... left him with no room for question. His breath escaped him in a shuddering gasp, as the vicious memories leapt out at him from the corner of his mind where he had forced them ... his wife, frail, broken, sobbing...

_Percy, Armand is in danger..A letter of his... rash, impetuous as were all his actions, and written to Sir Andrew Foulkes has fallen into the hands of a fanatic._

Ever since he left her, he had resolutely resolved... fought against...tried with every particle of will to banish the thought of her damnable behaviour at the ball, their meeting at Richmond that night, the shattering of his indifferent mask... without success.

_... I wished to test your love for me and it did not bear the test... _

The onslaught was relentless... _Armand was all in all to me! We had no parents, and brought one another up. He was my little father, and I, his tiny mother; we loved one another so. _His mesmerizing, merciless Margot weeping against the stone balustrade, as she twisted the red, hot knives in his heart. _You believed them then and there... without proof or question.._. seared him, branded him with every word.

The uninspired horse he was driving made a muffled noise of protest, as Percy rather sharply pulled the reins and the cart came to a jerky halt.

_Is it possible that love can die?_ … _Methought that the passion which you once felt for me would_ _outlast the span of human life. _

He had wanted to cry, to weep, to shake her slight frame until she saw how broken a man he was... The violence of his own grief and the madness of his passion of her had overwhelmed the brittle control over his emotions that he maintained in her presence... Once she left, the dam had burst...

_Percy, I entreat you... can we not bury the past?_

... Madly, he had wished that he could tear open his breast and show her how deep the scars of her rejection and betrayal had marked all that was left of his shattered heart. .. and still how all the broken pieces pitifully beat only for her.

He had not been immune to how she lay her pride in the dust... how much it must have cost her to revisit the sordid tale that culminated in the brutal death of the St. Cyrs. Neither had he been immune to the reminder of how she loved... when she did love someone ... with all the profound, uncompromising devotion of her passionate, impetuous nature... the love he could not win... And yet how he had hoped...

_I was tricked into doing this thing, by men who knew how to play upon my love for an only brother..._

A stab of deep sorrow for his wife... his Margot... who was a pawn but once again... A wave of compassion for her plight had swept across him.

Once he had elevated her on a pedestal in his mind... then he had placed her on a dock, a perpetual mental trial where accusation after accusation could be levelled at her betrayal and her deception... and even then... even now, always he just wanted to hold her, comfort her... believe her?

But his blasted pride had been a paralysing steel girder... an iron god... O, he would not stoop to take her in his arms... no, not even when she had hinted at reconciliation, not even she appealed for help... not even then... No, he would rather kiss the stone steps her feet had rested on, the balustrade her hand had grazed. He had loathed his helplessness.

And then next morn... their farewell... All that Marguerite had said and asked and implied... all that it could mean... all that it could not... Because it seemed more like something he would have conjured up from his audacious despair, rather than what had transpired, he had refused to dwell on those moments... till now... till he was overwhelmed by the resilient clamour of suppressed hope.

Shaken to the core, Percy allowed himself to bask in the memory of his last image of her... The glory of the early morning light setting afire the silken tresses of her hair; the very carelessness with which she had shrugged on a light wrapper in her haste adding to her sweet, seductive appeal; the glow in her eyes and the blush in her cheeks as she shyly extended the promise of her life in return for what he would accomplish for her brother...If she only knew... knew...that a smile might have sufficed to send him across the globe for her... How hard it had been to bend his back to kiss her fingers in a final salute, when all his lips wanted to do was to claim hers... What it had cost him to leave her presence...

Slowly, Percy pulled together the tatters of his self control... He had been afraid that the immensity of his emotion would destroy his sanity. But as he handled the reins of Goldstein's nag, he found that somehow he was no longer confounded by the last image of Marguerite as she stood at the doorstep bidding him Godspeed. Rather it cleared his brain and shed clarity on the stakes, the price and the hope of this image was like a talisman and in embracing it, he felt as if a great load had been lifted off him, inexplicably, miraculously...

The moon burst on the deserted landscape with a sudden ghostly glow. Percy looked up... and then ahead to find a figure purposively walking down the road.

Without altering his own steed's pace, Percy held himself in alertness.

The man, as Percy could see now, had also caught sight of him in the moonlight and broke into an awkward loping run towards him, stumbling a bit on the slippery mud.

Percy's hand tightened on his walking stick that concealed a rapier.

'Blakeney… Blakeney… thank Heavens…' Between the man's gasping breaths, Percy recognized the voice.

He hissed, 'Foulkes?... Foulkes, you fool, what in blazes are you doing here?'


End file.
